A Day In A Black Man's Life Ch. 02

God, I thank you that I'm alive. Those were the words in my head at two thirty in the morning on Tuesday, August 7, 2012. I was working an overnight shift as security for one of the biggest parking lots in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Clad in a black security jacket, black pants and boots, I patrolled the five floors of the parking lot, looking for vagrants and dumbasses who liked to spray graffiti on the walls, that sort of thing. My name is Stephen, and I'm a big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent living in the Capital region of Canada. I moved there two years ago from the City of Boston, Massachusetts, where I lived from the summer of 2009 to the beginning of 2010. I consider myself Haitian-American, a son of the world's first independent Black republic raised in the world's mightiest nation. There are so many different stories I could tell you but this is one I feel I MUST share.

Anyhow, I was working the overnight shift, which for me began at ten in the evening and would end at five o'clock in the morning. Working security in the Canadian capital for twelve bucks an hour so I can pay for my tuition at Carleton University, where I study Law. The shift began normally enough. I got the keys from the security guard in an adjacent parking lot, and got into the security booth in my lot. I called the company to sign in. I have to do this every hour otherwise they'll think I've left the site or something happened to me. Anyway, after patrolling all five floors, I decided to chill a little bit. The good thing about the company phone inside the booth is that it can make international calls. My security company has holdings across Canada and America, that's why. Anyhow, I decided to kill time by calling my lady friend Kiah.

Kiah is a tall, curvy and fine African-American gal I met a while back on this website dedicated to the Fetish Lifestyle. For kinky people, that site is like Facebook. I joined it and met quite a few cool people who liked the whips and chains lifestyle as much as I do. Much more to BDSM than whips and chains, by the way. Much more. Kiah taught me that. We've become friends and she's one of my Facebook pals as well. I called her at her apartment in Maryland and we talked for a good forty five minutes. I write erotic fiction stories and post them on the largest free website dedicated to erotic literature. I am known there as Samuel X. Kiah and I talked about life, about my latest stories, and how bored she was becoming with the Fetish Lifestyle. Kiah is a dominant gal who likes to dominate men, especially Black men. I haven't had the pleasure of experimenting with her because she lives in Maryland, USA, while I live in Ontario, Canada, but I sure hope to someday. Maybe when I get everything squared away financially and socially and eventually return to the United States of America. I came to Ontario because of difficult economic times as well as personal troubles. I was looking for a fresh start and Canada seemed like the right place for that at the time.

I talked to Kiah for a good while, and she regaled me with tales of her sexual adventures with her latest submissive. A big Black guy who loves dominant women of color with strap-on dildos. Wow. Talk about kinky. I love listening to tales of Kiah's adventures because the lady has a sexy voice and she's very kinky and open-minded. Besides, I had time to kill in the lonely booth in that gigantic parking lot in downtown Ottawa. We talked for a good forty five minutes, then I wished her goodnight. Next I called my cousin Yves in New York to check up on him. We hadn't spoken in a while. He was doing good. I called June, this young Haitian-Canadian woman I had been seeing. We've been going through a rough patch lately and I'm trying to mend things. She was asleep so I left her a message. We're supposed to go to the movies this coming Friday or Saturday or something. Around midnight another security guard came to the site. An Indian guy named Singh. He's a stocky guy with short hair and a goatee, in his early twenties. Not very talkative but decent enough, I say.

I let him into the booth, greeted him and we talked a bit. Singh seemed to have a lot on his mind that night. We talked about the shooting at a Sikh Temple in Wisconsin, where a racist White guy opened fire on innocent Indians who were merely practicing their faith. The racist White dude got arrested not long after, and according to the police, he was linked to a White supremacy group. They're calling the act an incident of domestic terrorism. A White man who's a terrorist! Who knew? To listen to the racially biased media, only people of color can be terrorists. White men and White women are always upstanding citizens. Give me a fucking break! Singh and I smiled at that. No matter how many innocent people get killed by racist White guys, the media will always think of criminals and terrorists as non-White. Even though a White woman named Colleen Larose was arrested for terrorism somewhere in the States after she converted to Islam and plotted to kill some people in Europe. She even bragged to her accomplices that her having blonde hair, blue eyes and White skin would greatly aid their cause as they went about their mission of terrorism. Why can't the media admit to itself that the new face of terrorism worldwide is White?

Anyhow, I got up and went on patrol. Around two o'clock, I stood on the uppermost floor of the building, the fifth floor, and gazed at the City of Ottawa below. The gigantic parking lot I was looking after was situated near an old church, a bar and a bunch of clubs. The nightlife in this part of town was quite active, even during a holiday weekend. Nice. I smiled as a tall, sexy redheaded lady with a visible big bum walked into the pub with a tall, fine brother. Why do some brothers have all the luck? I don't know. Anyhow, my attention was divided between looking at the nightlife below and reading this book, StarGate : The Barque of Heaven by Suzanne Wood. I loved the science fiction series StarGate growing up and I enjoy the novels, long after the original series and its spin-offs ended.

As I stood there, a voice hailed me. I looked up and saw a short, round white woman dressed in black. A closer look told me she was a police officer. She asked me how I was doing. I said I was fine, wondering what she was doing there. She asked me why I was doing here. I told her that I was security. She asked me what I had in my hand. I calmly showed her that it was a book. By now she stood six or seven feet from me. I looked at her, and told her what security company I was with. She asked to see some identification, even though I was in full uniform. I tried not to roll my eyes and took out my Ontario Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services licence. I'm licensed both as a Private Investigator and as a Security Guard in the Province of Ontario but it's easier to find work as a security guard than as a private investigator. Especially in Ottawa. The policewoman took my license and called someone in her police radio, giving them my information to check.

A moment later, a second police officer arrived. A male, in his early to mid-thirties, with black hair, white skin and dark eyes. The chubby policewoman told him that I claimed to be security. I sighed. Claimed to be security? I'm in uniform, and I just showed her my licence. What more do these people want from me? They're wearing their police uniforms and shields so I assume they're cops. See what I mean? I told the male cop that I was a security guard assigned to patrol this parking lot and I did it every night with my partner. He scoffed when I said the word partner. One second later, guess who showed up? Mr. Singh, the young Indian security guard whom I left in the security booth downstairs. He'd begun patrolling and made his way up the floors. Upon seeing him, the two police officers relaxed. Here comes my partner, I said.

The chubby policewoman looked at Singh in his uniform. He wore the khaki shirt and black pants with the red company logo emblazed upfront. I wore a black security uniform, with the company logo upfront and on my epaulettes ( I ranked higher than Singh ). The policewoman said that she couldn't tell that I was a security guard because the symbols and logos on my dark uniform weren't as obvious as those on Singh's paler uniform. Singh told them that both uniforms were official with the company, the black uniform and the beige one. The male police officer looked at us, said a half-hearted "sorry man" and walked away with his partner. I let out the breath that I hadn't realized I was holding. Singh and I shook our heads and went back downstairs.

For the rest of the night I sat in the booth while Singh patrolled. Seniority had its perks. That's what I told myself. Truth is, somebody from the building we were watching called the cops because they saw a black man walking around. It didn't matter that I wore a security uniform and got hired to protect the building from vagrants. The cops showed up because a black man was seen on the premises. Hmmm. I love Canada. As I sat there and ran the events of the night over in my head, I realized that I should count myself lucky. Think of this scenario, if you will. Cops show up after being told there's a big black man on the premises. I'm dressed in black, it's nighttime, and I've got something in my hand. A book. Yeah, I could have been shot. I can just imagine the headline on the Metro or the Ottawa Sun newspapers the next day. Unarmed Black man shot by Ottawa cops was overnight security guard. Stephen V. International student from the United States taking Law at local University. Awesome. Yet another unarmed, innocent black man shot by racist, overzealous, trigger-happy cops. God, I'm lucky to be alive.

At five in the morning, the security company sent a car to drop me off at my apartment in the East End of Ottawa because the buses aren't running around that time. I went home, took off my shirt, pants, socks and underwear, and fell in bed. I wouldn't wake up until noon on Tuesday, August 7, 2012. I got home at 5 : 17 A.M. that day. In my lifetime, I've run into so many bad people. Sociopaths seem to plague me the most. Men and women without conscience. I can spot them, mainly because my dad is definitely one of them. Same goes for my sister Alice and several of my aunts. Whatever makes them the way they are, some of it must be in my blood because spotting them is like telling red from blue for me. Hell, my roommate Leonard is one of them. He's charming and friendly when you first meet him, but inside he's colder than the Arctic and has no more conscience than the average rattlesnake.

I run into a lot of them at work, at school and everywhere else. The trick is to look in their eyes. There's something missing in those eyes of theirs. I saw something very much like that in the male police officer's eyes that night. He arrived with his hand on his holster and gave me the kind of look I reserve for cockroaches. No humanity in those eyes of his. Yep, a sociopath in a police uniform. Just my luck. Had he seen me before the chubby policewoman, I might be in a body bag right now. Either that or fighting for my life at Civic Hospital or Ottawa General Hospital, where ironically I used to work security. How long will my luck hold out as I deal with sociopaths, racists and misandrists ( man-haters ) in the Canadian capital? I feel like a mongoose thrown in a cage to fight serpents. Today, the mongoose beat a rattlesnake. Yesterday it beat a king cobra. How long until the cruel souls who enjoy blood sport throw the poor little animal against a boa? How long until I run into a situation where for all my smarts, strength and good luck, I can't overcome? I honestly don't know. Say a prayer for me, will you?